The Last Forever
by Cerulean Pen
Summary: Bonnie has had a rough day, and Andy picks her up from school, so they go on a ride to have a conversation. What happens when this is all ruined by a trip on the highway, a huge truck, and a shattered promise? Only tragedy...Andy/Bonnie, one-shot.


The Last Forever

Summary: Bonnie has had a rough day, and Andy picks her up from school, so they go on a ride to have a conversation. What happens when this is all ruined by a trip on the highway, a huge truck, and a shattered promise?

English Romance/Tragedy Rated: T Chapters:1 Words: Andy D. & Bonnie

_Time Frame: Twelve years since Toy Story 3_

_Bonnie's Age: Sixteen years old_

**Okay, I've suddenly become VERY interested in this pairing, and I have been dying to write this. I just love the idea of Andy and Bonnie, despite the age difference. But, this is a sad story, I have to warm you, it's pretty sad to those who hate character death. All right, read, review, and enjoy!**

_Unbelievably unfair…_

Bonnie's plastic platform flip flops made a loud thwacking noise on the pavement, but maybe that was just because she was alone in the courtyard. The high school was empty, but she was still waiting for her mother to come pick her up. All she wanted to do right now was change, grab her old Woody, Buzz, Jessie, and Dolly toys, and watch reruns of "Full House."

How could three girls be so incredibly vicious? The "Clique" of Ashley, Morgan, and Portia, had been extra cruel today, criticizing everything: from her unpainted toe nails to the new story she was working on in her journal. _They just don't understand, _Bonnie thought coldly, taking a seat on the plastic bench outside of the school's garden. _I don't have to be a girly, stuck-up, airhead to be considered "cool." I don't even want to be cool-if I want to draw a picture of my toys, or work on my stories, or daydream in class, that's me._

Yet self-doubt still snaked its way around the thought, causing her to look down at her clothes. She still stuck with her favorite colors of orange, greens, and yellows, plus, most of her clothes were paint-splattered. Today, Bonnie wore an airy dark green and light green striped shirt, that almost reached her knees, splattered with purple and red watercolor. She wore stretchy orange leggings, and green plastic Flip Flops, the kind from drug stores. What was so wrong about this outfit? It may clash a little, but it was comfortable, light, and easy to move around in.

"Forget this," Bonnie muttered to herself, pulling out her favorite journal, green, spackled with yellow stars and moons. She rummaged around for a pencil, then began to work feverishly on her short story. She was still on the fence about an ending for it, because she wanted something tragic, but had no idea.

About twenty minutes later, a horn honked, causing Bonnie to jump, her journal falling off of the bench, her pencil rolling into the gutter. Cursing under her breath, she was about to reach underneath the bench to retrieve her journal, when a strong hand reached under and got it for her. She looked up, into his bright blue eyes, and found herself sucking for breath, their fingers touching.

"Hey Bonnie, your mother asked me to come get you," he explained, in the voice that Bonnie could recognize from anywhere. Andy Davis, thought twenty-eight years old, was still the kind of person that made her heart stop beating for what seemed like forever.

"Okay, thanks for getting my journal," Bonnie replied, in a voice that surprised her with how relaxed it was, while her lungs weren't functioning properly. She grabbed her backpack, piling into the passenger's seat, while he took the driver's side.

They drove in silence for awhile, with Bonnie making the occasional correction on where to turn. Finally, she gave up, laying her head on the dashboard, while he looked over at her. "Please…can we please not drive home, just yet? I need to talk to someone before I can even relax."

"Sure."

All of a sudden, Andy pulled out of the routine way to get home, going through an exit. "Okay, we've added about twenty more minutes to the drive, so what do you want to talk about?"

Surprised he even agreed, Bonnie lifted her head, leaning back in the seat, twisting the seatbelt. Her eyes drifted to the backseat, where she saw Andy had picked up her four favorite toys, the box strapped in the back. Laughing a little, she turned back to Andy, who was smiling because she appreciated the toys. "Well…I've pretty much had a crappy day. I mean, the Clique, not the book, have totally trashed me again. They keep bringing up every little friggin' thing about me: the way I dress, my writing, my work, everything."

"Aw, that reminds me of a situation when you were twelve," he mused, thinking back to the Bonnie who didn't come out of her room, because she had been mistreated physically. High school didn't have time for physical bullying: it was made for verbal abuse. "But you know they're wrong about you, right?"

She didn't answer, mostly because the answer was a yes, which he wouldn't like. "Is there something wrong with the way I look and dress and act and do stuff?"

Andy looked over at her, her high cheek bones, her brown eyes, her shoulder-length dark hair, her six foot-two height, her protruding elbows and knees, her clashing outfit, and had one word for her. "Of course not, you're everything they're not: you are naturally beautiful, creative, and smart."

A blush crept into Bonnie's cheeks, pulling at the hem of her long shirt, muffling a giggle. "Thanks for that," she whispered, moving a little closer so she could lay her head on his shoulder.

He didn't move, just smiled down at her, reached over to turn on the radio, and kept his eyes on the road. Bonnie felt her eyes close, just as Sarah McLachlan began to sing "In The Arms Of An Angel."

Without warning, a four ton truck going at seventy miles an hour plows into the driver's side, so the car immediately works against the driver, flipping and sliding, tumbling like a toy car. It pulls the engine apart, shatters the dashboard, while hubcaps and wheels and metal shards go flying, until there's nothing left but a huge pile of rubble and a sad metal skeleton, barren of parts and passengers.

You wouldn't expect the radio to work afterwards, but it does, Sarah McLachlan's haunting, echoing voice calling out over the wreckage.

You also wouldn't expect the toys to be in one piece, but, thanks to the cardboard box they were placed in, all that's wrong is Buzz's plastic armor is a little dented. They know that something is wrong, that no one could survive a crash like this.

Yet they go anyway, staying in pairs of two, Buzz and Jessie lifting remains of seats and dashboard for either of the humans, Woody and Dolly sliding over the rubble like an ice-skating rink, hoping to bump into someone. Finally, she hits something that isn't a tire or a scrap of metal, but a human.

The seat comes off of the person, so the four can see that Bonnie is beneath the wreckage, her hair rusty with blood, her arm bending ways it shouldn't, clothing torn, skin bruised and scraped. There's silence, while the finishing notes of the song feebly seep out, until the radio goes dead as well.

"Find her backpack," are the only words that come out of Woody's mouth, now and for a while. Jessie and Dolly team up together to search, while Buzz tears off a strip of the seat to press against Bonnie's wounds.

A few minutes later, the two female dolls come back with Bonnie's backpack, most contents spilt out in the wreck. The cowboy plunges in, quickly returning with her cell phone, which, amazingly, is still functioning well. He dials a number that he has always known, but wished he never had to use-911.

"This is the Emergency Situation crew, please state your emergency."

"There's been an accident on Highway 77, located in lower Los Angeles, two people in the car, one severely injured, the other not found."

"Okay sir, we'll send an ambulance out right away, please try to locate the other passenger."

Woody hangs up the phone, without slipping it back into her backpack, while the silence still seems to haunt them. He doesn't say a word as he begins to plow through the wreckage once again, searching for his first owner. The rag doll follows him, afraid to let anyone go alone, while they overturn piles and piles of what used to be a car.

Tiny flames have now sprung up, from the torn apart engine, just another thing to add to their list. She gets separated for a moment, then hears a gasp, which causes her to see him, the look of horror and depression and shock on his face, and she knows. "No…"

Andy is underneath most of the dashboard, what's left of a car door wedging into his side, his arms tangled around the steering wheel, skin and muscle peeled back to reveal white streaks of bone. Blood creates a large crimson puddle around his body, which is severely impaled by glass. There is almost doubt that he's dead, but, just to make sure, Dolly lays her hand on his wrist, grimacing when there's no pulse.

The ambulance comes whirring down the road, a kaleidoscope of reds and blues and whites lighting the asphalt, while the toys hide. Three paramedics come racing out, wheeling a gurney with them, quickly loading Bonnie on, pulling her into the back of the ambulance.

A young woman, on her own, discovers Andy, and straps him onto a gurney, like she still believed that he was going to live. She brushes a lock of bloodied brown hair off of his face, whispering something reassuring to him before loading him on. Someone with electric paddles quickly hits his chest, restarting his heart for a brief moment. Both know he won't live long, but they wheel him next to Bonnie, taking off for the hospital, the siren whirring.

She opens her eyes, her arm absolutely burning with pain, while two people attend to her, pumping painkillers, and bandaging cuts, and cleaning wounds. Bonnie carefully lifts her head, even though it feels like she's being slashed in the neck, just to see Andy.

His bright blue eyes open for a moment, his hand reaching for hers, his breathing labored and shallow. Andy can only muster a few words, his heart slowing and breaking for how vulnerable she looks on the cot. "Bonnie, it's okay."

"Don't leave me, Andy," she whispers, each word feeling like a million little needles in her throat. Their hands collide again, clumsily grasping each other, hanging on like the world was collapsing around them. "I don't want you to go, please, please, please…"

"I swear."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

0o0

Tessa Baker and Jonathon Peterson turned around in their desk chairs, facing the camera, the five o'clock news symbol flashing behind them. She nodded slightly at the camera, as if quickly greeting her audience, beginning with the news. "Good evening, I'm Tessa Baker, and our lead story tonight is about the car accident on Highway 77. In the news room, we have the only survivor from the incident, sixteen year old Bonnie Anderson."

The camera swiveled a little, so they could plainly see the dark haired girl sitting a few feet over. Her face had a few scars, with bandages plastered all over her forehead and neck. Her left arm was in a bulky cast, tears brimming in her dark brown eyes. "My name is Bonnie Anderson," she says, taking a moment to breathe, closing her eyes, picturing the bright blue ones to appear, the smiling face, encouraging her to continue. "And I…"

She trails off, with only an awkward pause, the only sound one of Jonathon's papers slowly scraping the surface of their desk. Everyone waits, their actions frozen, while she collects herself to answer them.

"And I just want to be dead, too."

**Wow. I'm crying. Is that a good sign, because I'm not sure my Woody and Dolly dolls enjoy my crying into them. Okay, it's really sad, and tragic, and, unfortunately, it happens everyday. Please review.**


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